ARSYLANG
The Cow was followed by the Tiger. Secretly we were afraid of the Tiger, but we didn’t forget to look for something to comfort us: This Tiger was white. It was as if the White Tiger came creeping on soft paws, for it was silent before and after. The New Year was not as it used to be. Rumor had it that bleeding dysentery was on its way. Nobody from outside came to visit, and there seemed to be no end to the meat and the deep-fried bread the Yellow Cow had prepared and left for the White Tiger. And even though the New Year and with it the first month of spring had arrived, it was bitterly cold. Snow fell on the ninth and again on the seventeenth. The second snowfall had been forecast by Father and therefore expected by everybody.
“How much worse will it be on the twenty-second?” everybody wondered. People were on their guard and went about their days with quiet mindfulness. It snowed during the night of the twenty-first. The heavy snowfall did not stop until the following noon and was followed by a storm. The snow already on the ground started to move again, and sky and earth collapsed into each other. The dshut had arrived. We took the big flock to where the small one normally grazed. The hendshe stayed where it had spent the night and later in the day was fed the way young lambs are fed in their first year: we hung bundles of hay on a line drawn tight above their heads. But when we went to do the same the next day, we had to let the animals off because we did not have enough hay. Mountain and steppe lay in glaring black and white as if shattered in a sea of shards. It tired the eye. And a howling and hissing wind sawed and cut, stung and tugged at everything in its path. The hendshe burst into noise when it stepped into this wind.
Driven by the wind, the lambs ran for a while, then tired and tried to hide their heads under one another’s bellies for protection from the pinching and stinging cold. They were barely able to graze.
I was cold myself and shivering. The glow stone couldn’t keep my hands and face warm. My fingertips burned, along with the backs of my hands, my nose, and my cheeks and chin. And I was freezing in other places as well, such as my calves and my neck.
Even Arsylang kept his tail between his legs and tilted his head when we crossed through the wind that lashed us like flames.
“What on earth shall we do?” I asked Arsylang, pointing at the shivering mass. Arsylang didn’t know. So it was left to me to decide. And I decided and said: “Let’s go home, Arsylang.”
So we drove the flock home. This meant going against the wind, which was hard, but with me shouting and Arsylang barking and both of us running hither and thither, we made progress as best as we could.
Mother was working in the hürde, shoveling snow, and digging up and spreading last year’s grainy, dry dung in place of the frozen, new dung she had already scraped together in a pile. She looked at me and said: “I had hoped the running would warm them up and make them eat.” She sounded unsure of herself, almost apologetic, but then she said in a hard voice as if to admonish or even threaten me: “Grab an armload of hay, but make sure that not a blade is lost in the wind.”
The hendshe jostled beneath the rock that formed the northern side of the stone wall and jutted out quite a bit above the hürde. Under there, the lambs were sheltered from the wind, and all that could be heard now—and more clearly than before—was the rushing and occasional hissing and pelting of the wind. Trembling and murmuring, the hendshe tore into the hay, and each of the animals began to eat with a haste I had never seen or thought possible. Mother was watching, too. She told me to fetch düüleesh and fresh horse droppings. I took my small basket, slung it over my shoulder, and left with Arsylang. After a while Mother caught up with us. I was happy to see her and thought that two baskets could hold more than one—this way the hendshe would get more to eat. But I said nothing and only walked as fast as I could so as not to fall behind. Mother broke her silence only once to give a menacing order for Arsylang to go home, which he obeyed immediately.
We walked toward Saryg Göschge, discovering along the way little piles of horse droppings that looked dark and so could probably still be used as feed. But the droppings were frozen rock-solid, and lumps of snow, rock, and dirt stuck to them. Separating the droppings from these lumps was hard work.
In the deep hollow of Saryg Göschge, we were protected from the wind. At first we found enough düüleesh to quickly fill our baskets, but then we had a hard time. Walking into the wind was almost impossible. Several times we stopped to rest. The resting itself was glorious: We turned our backs to the wind, dropped to the ground, and sat in the shadow of the filled baskets, panting and with our eyes closed, but fully aware that, for the time being, we did not have to fight the wind.
Back home, I cut the soft, grassy tops off the düüleesh and chopped them. While I was busy chopping, Mother melted the horse droppings over the fire. Then she mixed the düüleesh and the horse droppings in a bowl and added salt. She took a handful of salt from its bag, sprinkled it over the steaming, tangy mass, and said: “May we drink water rather than let the voracious pack perish!” We called everything that was eaten without salt water. Salt was very valuable and always in short supply.
The hendshe wolfed down what we put in front of it. “So,” Mother said solemnly, “it’s up to us to keep them alive.”
Unfortunately, Mother was wrong. Or maybe she was right, and we simply proved not to be up to it. For this is what happened. In the evening, Father came home with the big flock and reported that four lambs had frozen to death on the pasture, and that several more were close to dying. All he had been able to do was to skin the dead animals—which he had to do because of the wool quota—and as he did so, he noticed that they had a bit of fat left on the breast.
The next morning all the sheep that had nearly frozen to death the previous day were added to the little flock. There were many! Together Mother and I went off with this new flock, taking our baskets with us. We went back to Saryg Göschge, where we pulled düüleesh and picked up fresh horse droppings while we watched the flock. The cold continued, as did the storm. One lamb died. It was one of mine, the second-crop lamb of the middle one of my three stumpy-eared Blackface ewes. These ewes were sisters and so alike one might have taken them for triplets, but we distinguished them by age. The oldest sister was no longer alive. Pressed by Father, I had given her up for slaughter last winter. Now there was another gap in the family.
We didn’t notice until the lamb already lay there dead. If we had noticed earlier, when it stumbled or even when it fell, we might have been able to save it. But we were too late. I drew my knife from the sheath on my belt and started to cut into the dead lamb’s belly even before Mother had said anything. Because of the cold it was extremely hard work. My hands got cold, first the left one with which I stretched tight the frost-covered fleece, and later the right one, which I clenched to a fist and shoved between the skin and the body, where it stayed warm as long as it was close to the flesh but then got cold as well.
Mother said we should have paid more attention, and we did from then on. But nothing like that happened again. Heavily loaded down, we drove the flock ahead of us as we returned home in the evening. Once home, we immediately started to prepare more feed.
The big flock had suffered more losses, and again the next morning more animals—this time even fully grown ones—were added to the small flock. Again the two of us went off with our baskets, and again it was the same drudgery.
As the days passed, the flock wasted away in spite of our efforts. There were losses in both flocks. Each morning we lugged away several dead animals, and Father and I skinned them together. By then I had mastered the skill much better. The skins were stretched and frozen, then piled on top of each other next to a rock a little farther away. Later we wet the flesh side of each skin repeatedly and then covered them tightly. Eventually, when they began to rot, we pulled off the wool. The pile grew quickly. The skinned bodies were stored behind the hulking flat rocks that stuck out from the ground below the hürde like the remains of a beheaded forest. Arsyla
ng helped carry them over, and then left them to lie there without ever touching them again. Once I cut off the fatty tail of a lamb that had had some strength left and Arsylang, after sniffing it undecidedly for a few moments, wolfed it down in a single gulp. From then on I always gave Arsylang the piece of a carcass that I thought was best: in addition to the fatty tail or meat from the haunches, I also gave him the liver.
Father and Mother were soon showing signs of the strain. Their faces had turned black. Their cheekbones jutted out, and their noses seemed strangely big. I must have been getting emaciated, too, for my whole body felt dead tired, my feet slid around in my boots, and the basket I had to carry seemed to grow heavier by the day.
We rose at dawn and didn’t get to bed until the dark of night. Often Father had to get up a few times to check on the flocks. Since the beginning of time, a shepherd who spends his day outside with his sheep has never eaten more than twice a day—early in the morning and late at night. We had always followed this custom, but we always had good meals and enjoyed the companionship that came with them. Now there was no longer time for that. Hardly back on our feet, we would rush out to help the trembling animals that had been lashed by the night’s cold. Eating became less important. It was good that we had dried curd cheese: In the morning each of us put a handful of pieces into a breast pocket, and most of the time we kept a piece in our mouth and sucked it. Curd cheese helped stave off hunger as well as thirst. Sometimes at night, when I took off my clothes and untied my belt, a forgotten piece fell out of my coat folds. The cheese always felt warm, soft, and oily to the touch.
With each passing day, the animals grew thinner and thinner, and the flock smaller and smaller. The cold and the storm continued. Then the birthing began. Each morning we checked the flock. Animals whose bellies had dropped and looked sunken were separated out and left in the hürde. Sometimes we had to finger their udders. Full, warm udders and reddish teats were a sure sign the ewe would lamb soon. In spite of our checks, Father came home most evenings with his felt bag full and heavy with new-born lambs.
Because she had to look after the lambing ewes and their new-borns, Mother was no longer able to watch the second flock with me. I wanted to continue taking the basket, but Father and Mother would not let me since they were afraid I might stumble in the storm and get choked by the basket sling. So I gathered düüleesh and horse droppings into piles instead, and now and then Mother came to pick them up.
Almost every day I had to skin dead animals. It was very hard with the fully grown sheep. They were emaciated, and their skin clung tight. One day in desperate straits I invented an easier process for myself: while pulling and tightening the skin with my left hand, I pounded it with the glow stone in my right hand. Normally, we skinned only large animals that way. Soon I refined the process: I told Arsylang to bite into the skin and pull it tight, which he quickly understood and carried out with great dedication. Now I was able to pound the tightened skin with the stone and then, when my arm got tired, stomp on it with my foot, which was, however, not quite as effective.
During those storm-tossed days I taught Arsylang another trick. One evening yet another animal had died on the way home. I lugged it along until I ran out of strength and had to leave it behind. This was not supposed to happen. During the night it would freeze rock-solid, and that would destroy the valuable wool that Father’s life depended on. His head would roll, as he put it. Worried, I realized Arsylang might be able to carry the animal. I pointed at the dead sheep and said: “Arsylang, fetch!” He bit into the shaggy fleece. I lifted and heaved it on his neck, and Arsylang started to walk. He was strong. Every child was familiar with the saying: “Dogs get lucky during the dshut, and lamas during the plague.” Although it wasn’t my four-legged companion’s fault, it was true in our case.
In those days the emaciated ewes had little if any milk. Their udders sagged like empty bags, and their teats were cold and lifeless. The lambs bleated with hunger and licked and sucked whatever got in front of their little mouths—other lambs, their mothers’ shaggy strands of wool, people’s fingers or the seams of their clothes. Mother prepared a gruel of flour, butter, herb tea, and salt, to which she sometimes added a bit of milk. Flour was a rarity we only got to taste on holidays. And the milk was drawn one drip at a time from the odd ewe that was a little better off than the others—in the eyes of the mother and her baby, it must have felt like theft. With this gruel we fed the starving lambs. But the hollow sucking sound of the empty horn-bottle betrayed the lambs’ persistent hunger. This was not about what you might have called “stilling their hunger” or making them “feel full,” it was about getting them to survive the day and endure into the next which might, perhaps, be better. Sometimes I got a little bowl of gruel myself. Then I swore that in the future, when the good times would come, I’d eat nothing but gruel.
Some ewes even rejected their lambs. That happened in other years, too, but now it spread like a devastating infectious disease. When they were supposed to be nursing, we would squat behind these ewes, cling to their udders, and sing for dear life. Yes, we sang! It was not the lyrics that mattered, but the melody, the rich voice, and the repetition: toega—toega—toega … Sometimes, though, little rhymes would also slip off ur tongue:
If you don’t love your little one—
toega—toega—toega
You are such a wicked one—
toega—toega—toega
If you nurse it all you can—
toega—toega—toega
You’ll become an Ardshupan—
toega—toega—toega!
Ardshupan was the hero of the fairy tales I made up and told Arsylang. Ar- came from Arsylang, dshu- from one of my own names, Dshurukuwaa, and -pan was meant to indicate great courage.
Father sang:
As long as we have you—
toega—toega—toega
We are the richest of all—
toega—toega—toega
As soon as we lose you—
toega—toega—toega
We are the poorest of all—
toega—toega—toega!
Whom did he have in mind? Hardly those stupid sheep who left their children to die in order to save their own meager lives! Maybe he meant the mountains. That was more likely. The mountains protected animals and people from the wind and the cold and gave us so much: grass and herbs, bulbs and roots against the hunger, water and snow against the thirst, desgen and düüleesh against the cold. As I thought about it, I myself suddenly felt like praising the mountains, our Black Mountains. But first I had to finish telling the stupid sheep what was most important: If you nurse your little lamb all you can, you’ll become an Ardshupan; if you do not love your little one, remember that slaughter will come!
Mother, for her part, appealed to the milk, to the white, warm milk. The whole time she repeated the same song:
Flow, flow milk—
toega—toega—toega
White, white milk—
toega—toega—toega
Hot, hot milk—
toega—toega—toega
Pour, pour milk—
toega—toega—toega.
Of course we also tried other means. We brushed highly concentrated brine on the animal baby’s bottom and forced the mother’s mouth into the saline wool so that the mother, no matter how much she resisted at first, could not help but lick her wet lips, and discover that she liked it. In fact, once she had licked the brine on her lips, she could no longer stop licking until all the taste of salt seemed to be gone. Then we could see which was stronger, her cravings or her stubbornness. If the former won out, she would come back on her own for another sampling of the tasty treat we had prepared for her. Once that happened, all was well. But often her stubbornness won. Then we resorted to our next trick, which was to push several fingers into the ewe’s vagina, straighten and bend them in there, and then wipe those fingers on the wool of the lamb’s back. How many fingers to use and how far to bend them depe
nded on the ewe’s reaction. Where one ewe was responsive, the next one was like a piece of rock. But these were remedies that only the grown-ups used anyhow. I knew about them and watched when they were applied, but so far I had stuck to my singing. My high, clear voice usually took effect on the animals more quickly than the voices of the grown-ups.
In the evenings we stayed late at the hürde. If the night was clear, the stars’ bluish-yellow light would fall from the sky and bounce off the flock’s back. In the shimmering starlight we remained glued to the sheep udders and continued to sing. Darkness lurked all around us, and out of this darkness chills rolled over us in unending waves, which always left behind a yawn. We tried hard to repress this urge, tried to shake it off, but each of us felt the need to drop on the spot and fall asleep instantly among the sheep. We had to keep singing and through our singing, drive the ice from the ewes’ bodies, thereby laying bare and reawakening their feelings of love.
One night Mother appealed to the blue sky. Clouds had sprung up, the storm had died down, the air smelled of snow, and darkness weighed, dumb and heavy, on yurt and hürde, people and sheep.
If you still have eyes—
toega—toega—toega
See me, oh Deedis—
toega—toega—toega
If you still have ears—
toega—toega—toega
Hear me, oh Deedis—
toega—toega—toega.
Tears began to well up in her voice.
Why this, why, why—
toega—toega—toega …
The tears arrived. The singing broke off, and gave way to sniffling and heaving. I was aware of what was happening next to me, but I continued to sing. Father, too, sang on. He was describing the baby for its animal mother:
Soft little ears—
toega—toega—toega
Small little mouth—
toega—toega—toega
Skinny little legs—
toega—toega—toega
Curly little tail—
toega—toega—toega
The Blue Sky Page 11
